


as the war machine keeps turning

by bloodlust



Category: NCT (Band), SuperM (Korea Band)
Genre: Blood and Injury, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Secret Organizations, Undercover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:21:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28406190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodlust/pseuds/bloodlust
Summary: Mark believes in doing everything for the greater good... only it isn’t alwaysthatsimple.
Relationships: Mark Lee/Wong Yuk Hei | Lucas
Comments: 14
Kudos: 54





	1. like virgins who believe in the love of a whore

**Author's Note:**

> Ye, who are propitious victims  
>  Of deceit and bestial rigor,  
>  Arise now to save your country,  
>  Free her from the claws of the traitor!
> 
> — **A.I.B.**
> 
>  **disclaimer** : this is a work of fiction. any semblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. that being said, _mors tyrannis_!

**14.5983° N, 120.9862° E**  
**SOL 000** — 02:09:17

OPERATIVE: **Mark Lee** / CODENAME: **PANTHER**  
AFFILIATIONS: **LION** CLEARANCE: **TS-SCI**  
ID CLASS NO: **080212-161349-16**  
STATUS: **ACTIVE** , **FIELD OP** [BIRDWATCHER]

_Fuck_.

Mark barely even registered the searing pain on his right arm before he was moving again, adrenaline pumping through his veins as he propped his elbows on the coarse asphalt in an effort to push his entire weight upright.

He saw the knife coming at him in full speed, its trailing point aiming directly at his neck, but Mark managed to make a quick sidestep to his right and connect his elbow at the base of the person’s skull. He then moved onto the next attacker, pushing out his wounded arm to knock the pistol out of the other person’s hand, and balled his own hand into a fist, punching the attacker’s throat before the person could even recover from his first strike.

His other attacker staggered backward, clutching his neck as he seemingly choked on his own spit, and Mark watched as the last of his attackers fell facedown on the ground with a heavy thud.

Mark wheezed, lifting his head to look up at the dark skies as he gasped for fresh air through the sharp, metallic smell of fresh blood wafting around him.

He briefly looked down at his worn-out wristwatch, noting the new crack on its crystal glass top, when his ears suddenly picked up a sound. There was the unmistakable fall of footsteps approaching his direction, faint and muffled but still somehow discernable to his ears, and he could almost hear the soft, rattling sound of the guns strapped to their bodies, all ready and set in position.

 _God-fucking-dammit_ , he thought to himself, lurching himself into a run before making a sharp turn to his right and headed straight into a narrow alleyway.

The combined smell of urine and sewer gas assaulted his senses, nearly making him gag as the putrid odor uninvitedly danced in front of his nostrils, but he managed to shoulder on, putting enough pressure on the gunshot wound on his right arm to minimize the bleeding.

He wasn’t going to die tonight.

 _He outright refused to_.

Mark reached a corner, deciding to turn to his left at the very last minute, and eventually got out onto a small street, baring and subjecting himself to the line of iron sheet houses perched on top of one another.

He kept an eye on his trail, subtly observing the group of men who were drinking their hearts out around a propped table on the sidewalk, and nodded to himself when he saw that they didn’t pose any threat—their uniforms with the street watchmen logo, though all laid out on the wooden bench that they were sitting on, were a testament to that.

If anything, he was more concerned with the houses in front of him.

There were at least twenty window-like openings facing him, three passageways between the duplexes, and five doorways with only curtains to cover the entryways. Most of the lights were off, save for the single candle burning inside the second floor of the third house to his right, and he knew better than to move anywhere near it, remembering the rookie mistake that the rest of his squad had done a few years back.

A rookie mistake was still a mistake, after all, and he had no plans to share the same fate as his late colleagues.

Not tonight.

And especially not like _this_.

“ _Oi_ ,” the sharp, cut-off shout of a man caught his attention, pulling him back into the moment just as he felt the graze on his forearm twitch.

Mark bit at his bottom lip, trying to even out his breathing before stopping in his tracks to fish out a fake badge from his jacket’s breast pocket with two bloody fingers. He heard the man’s movements from behind him come to a halt as well, flashing a dim light at his back. “It’s already late, boy. Are you lost?”

He turned around, quickly noticing a politician’s name stamped in a bright red print on the man’s silicone wristband, and recognized the man as one of the street watchmen from the drinking group earlier.

Mark released a breath of relief, relaxing his entire body as he raised the badge with his right hand, somehow even managing to put a wolfish smile on his chapped lips. “I’m on-duty, boss.”

The man flashed a light on his badge, its reflection shining back at him, and Mark saw his eyes widen for a fraction. Mark waited, keeping the smile on his face while he let the man school back his features, his entire demeanor towards him suddenly morphed from indifference to respect.

“Sorry, _ser_. I was just checking in to see if you were—” the street watchman cut himself off, probably noticing the droplets of blood on the concrete ground, and Mark swore he heard the man let out a soft gasp.

It almost made him chuckle.

“Are you okay, ser?”

Mark nodded in assurance. “It’s just a scrape, boss. It’s far from the intestines.”

“If you want, ser, I could…” the watchman trailed off once more, too focused on the arm that Mark was clutching on to finish his sentence. It was as if it was the man’s first time seeing blood drip out of a person and he couldn’t take his eyes off of it even if he tried.

“Say, boss,” Mark started before the watchman could say anything else, pushing his luck and silently hoping that it hadn’t completely run out. “Do you have any available patrol vehicles lying around here? I really need to get to the nearest police station and inform them about my team’s encounter.”

“Of course,” the watchman answered almost immediately before clearing his throat once more, beckoning one of the men from his drinking group to come over. “Do you have a radio with you, ser?”

Mark shook his head, wincing at the muscle spasm on his forearm. “My team was ambushed along the way. I’m afraid I lost all my equipment while I was trying to call for backup.”

“Those fucking addicts,” the man muttered under his breath. “Who was it this time? I bet they were pushers, huh? Goddamn youth these days think they’re better than the police. They must’ve been the ones who ambushed you, right?”

“Yes.”

 _They weren’t_.

Mark could write a long list of people who were after him, even the people who had already threatened his life once or twice ever since he had sworn his loyalty to _The Godfather_ , but he knew that the mindless mass would be better off hearing about their country’s worsening war against drugs than the other minute details kept behind the scenes.

The watchman clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth, clearly displeased that his hunch was correct. Another man approached them, sober and way younger than the watchman who checked on him, and Mark had to bring himself not to bolt right there and then.

“Pa,” the younger man called out without sparing Mark a glance. “Is there a problem?”

 _Ah_.

“Quick. Get the mobile ready,” the watchman instructed the other man.

The younger man raised a brow at Mark but didn’t ask any further questions, simply walking away from both of them as if he didn’t hear anything. The older watchman turned back to Mark with a tight smile. “This way, ser. You’ll have to excuse our mobile. We haven’t had enough funds yet to replace it.”

“It’s okay, boss,” he replied quickly, falling one step behind the watchman. “It’s no worry at all.”

The watchman only hummed in response, flashing his dim light in front of them where the younger man was walking ahead of them. Mark’s eyes wandered around in instinct as a comfortable silence fell between them. It was becoming too quiet for his liking and he still had no vision of the people who were after him.

He knew damn well that he couldn’t afford to risk an open encounter with two civilians near him.

“Must be tough for a young man like you to serve in the force, huh?”

Mark snapped out of his concentration, turning his head slightly to the side just in time to see the watchman nod at the younger man from the corner of his eye.

“My son, Noah, was supposed to be the first of our family to enter the Academy, but I begged him not to. I don’t think my heart can take it if anything happened to him. It’s still too dangerous out there.”

“It really is,” he answered, dragging his gaze up and down at the young man’s— _Noah_ , Mark corrected himself—figure to make a quick assessment of his own. He certainly had the physique for it, that was for sure, and the younger man looked far more fit than most of the policemen he had seen in position. “To be fair, boss, I think your son would still make a great officer.”

“Ah, yes, _well_.” The watchman beamed back at him, grinning to himself in a way that Mark could only assume as a swell of pride, before extending a hand towards a worn-out utility vehicle in front of them. “Here we are, ser. Noah, go drive the officer to the nearest police station.”

“Thank you,” Mark said with a smile. “He doesn’t need to do that, though. I can bring the vehicle back bright and early later.”

“No, I insist, ser,” the watchman countered. “You’re in no condition to drive around with an open wound like that.”

Noah nodded at his father’s words. “I agree, sir. It looks like you’re bleeding out.”

 _Well, no shit_ , Mark thought to himself, pressing his tongue on the roof of his mouth to prevent himself from saying anything. He turned his head slightly to the side again, picking up the sound of several combat boots marching from the direction they had come from, and gritted his teeth.

He turned back to the watchman. “We’ll go on, then. Thank you so much for all your help, boss.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” the watchman responded, smiling as he clasped a hand on his son’s shoulder. “By the way, ser, before you go, what did you say your name was?”

“Marcus,” Mark answered without any kind of hesitation, unabashedly flashing a toothy grin at the two men in front of him. “I’m Lieutenant Marcus Evangelista.”

◎◎◎

Mark Lee died exactly five days after his sixteenth birthday.

His passing, though incredibly dull and uneventful, was executed rather flawlessly. There was no foul play, no fractured bones, and no stab wounds puncturing his skin. As far as his autopsy report was concerned, there wasn’t even a single drop of blood that exited his body.

In all his years of experience, he knew now that his death was the quickest and, _arguably_ , the most painless way to go—a merciful one, _to say the least_.

After all, all he had to do was sign his name away on a thin piece of parchment paper, burn all his fingertips until his prints would no longer be unidentifiable by any kind of software, and arrange his own funeral in however way he liked.

And, _boy_ , was that a goddamn treat.

He got front row seats to see just how pretentious people could be at funerals… even when they barely knew the person lying inside the casket.

It was better than any comedy shows he had ever seen.

“Rise and shine, Mr. Sunshine,” a familiar voice of a man greeted in a singsong tone, effectively waking Mark from his slumber. He stirred in place, looking for the source of the voice with his eyes closed, only for the man to speak again. “It’s already way past noon. Did you have a good nap?”

Mark’s eyelids fluttered, blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the bright light that was streaming directly in front of him. He raked his brain, trying to remember what happened and where exactly he was, but all he could come up with was the ride he had with the watchman’s son.

The blurry figure of a man blocked the light from his vision, dragging two fingers on the side of Mark’s left wrist without saying another word. Mark raised his head, squinting to get a good look of the man in front of him.

“ _Noah_?”

“Lieutenant,” Noah responded with a small smile. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

Mark blinked once more, finding that his thoughts were still all over the place. He dragged and focused his gaze down at his wrists, wondering why they felt so stiff and sore, only to see them handcuffed to the chair he was sitting on while an IV needle was attached to his arm.

“What the fuck is this?” Mark asked, his voice coming off weak and a bit raspier than usual.

“Don’t move too much. You lost a lot of blood from that bullet and you still have a needle in you.” Noah pressed at the crease inside his elbow where the needle was, careful not to lean in too close to his personal space. “But you’re safe, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“ _Bullshit_ ,” he bit out, feeling his throat slowly close up. “Who sent you, you little shit?”

Noah met his gaze with a grin, tilting his head slightly to the side as if he was trying to figure him out, but said nothing further. Mark’s eyes locked in on him in retaliation, unconsciously aware that he had to play his cards right, but he didn’t feel any kind of hostility emanating from the man. Noah was no threat, even in his own evaluation, and yet his skin couldn’t seem to stop buzzing around him—as if it was warning him of a bad omen.

He knew he had to get out.

Mark adjusted his eyes, using his peripheral vision and the shadow of the man against the light to his advantage, and leaned further into the chair to widen his perspective without breaking their eye contact.

His senses were finally coming back to him.

The room was virtually empty save for the studio light that was behind Noah. There were no windows, no sign of any tables, and no other chairs other than his own. The only viable exit was through the heavy steel door to his right, but even that had no wide opening besides the tiny slits provided by the metal bars on the door’s vision panel.

Mark bit the insides of his cheeks, devising an escape plan inside his head.

 _It was fucking prison_.

Noah averted his gaze first, shaking his head in amusement as he checked the IV on Mark's arm one last time before making his way to the door. “You’re certainly different from what we were all expecting.”

Instead of asking what the man meant, Mark simply scoffed at him in return, wrinkling his nose as he raised a brow in challenge. “Take these cuffs off of me and I can show you just how different I am.”

“Save your energy, Lieutenant,” Noah replied dismissively, craning his head to look back at him. “We’re not the enemy here.”

Mark clenched his jaw. “You little _fuck_ —”

With one last grin thrown in his direction, Noah slammed the door shut behind him.

He waited for a minute, hanging his head low as he listened to the sound of the man’s footsteps slowly fade away, and smiled to himself.

 _Perfect_.

Mark stuck his neck out on both sides and took in a deep breath, preparing himself for what he was about to do. He looked down at his right arm, briefly calculating just how much force he needed to get him out of his restraints, and tucked his thumb inside his fist as hard as he could.

There was a crack, a single pop of his joints dislocating from one another, and Mark felt his finger fall limp, swaying back and forth as he released it from his grip.

 _Huh_ , he thought with a huff, _that was anticlimactic_.

Mark clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth, wondering why his thumb didn’t hurt as much as he could remember, before drawing out a breath and effortlessly sliding his hand out of the handcuff.

He then removed the needle from his arm, disregarding the droplets of blood that came out with it, and used it to pick on the handcuff’s key port. The metal band came off easily, allowing him to detach himself from the wooden chair that he was strapped in, and stretched his body until he could feel his blood flowing through his veins again.

The room was way bigger than what he had measured from his periphery, but he sure got its emptiness right. He could practically hear the hushed voices echoing from the hallway on the other side of the heavy steel door.

This wasn’t a prison, Mark realized, _no_ , this was somewhere else entirely; somewhere hidden and could not be easily detected by a simple radar. An underground hideout, perhaps, but he knew that all of those were sealed off and monitored by the Republic.

The rusty hinges of the door suddenly emitted a loud creak and opened towards him, prompting Mark to take a step back and widen his stance in case he needed to get crafty with his attack, only for a blond-haired man to step into the room and cast his bright, mismatched eyes down at him—the familiar scar that ran from the man’s forehead down to his left eye and cheek unbiddenly throwing him back to the past.

There was a palpable pause between them and Mark swore that he heard his own breath hitch as he stood there, seemingly frozen in place and in an awkward position while a cold wave of forgotten memories washed over him.

The man took a single step forward, the sides of his lips curling up in a smug grin, and Mark knew he was done for.

 _Fuck_.

“Hello, Mark.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Marcus Evangelista is a play on Mark the Evangelist.


	2. to see is to devour

**LAW ENFORCEMENT AND**   
**INTELLIGENCE ORGANIZATION**   
MAIN HEADQUARTERS

**RESTRICTED HANDLING**  
`CONFIDENTIAL MESSAGE`

TO : DIRECTOR  
LAW ENFORCEMENT AND  
INTELLIGENCE ORGANIZATION  
**ATTN** : D/LION ███████████████  
FROM : ████████████, OIC COVERT OPS  
SUBJECT: MISSION REPORT **#TS-8667354**  
**OPERATION RED HORSE**

1\. THE AVENGER UNIT HAS SUCCESSFULLY CARRIED OUT OPERATION RED HORSE ON THE ██████████████████████ UPON ORDERS FROM THE PRESIDENT OF THE REPUBLIC.

2\. HOWEVER, THE UNIT HAS ALSO SUFFERED MULTIPLE CASUALTIES, INCLUDING THREE (3) CIVILIANS AND TWO (2) LION OPERATIVES, AFTER ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████. THE CASUALTIES, HEREBY DECLARED AS **KILLED-IN-ACTION** , ARE AS FOLLOWS:  
a. XIAO DEJUN (CIVILIAN)  
b. NING YIZHOU (CIVILIAN)  
c. ZHONG CHENLE (CIVILIAN)  
d. WINTER KIM (OPERATIVE)  
e. LUCAS WONG (OPERATIVE)

3\. THE RETRIEVAL PROCESS OF THE BODIES OF OPERATIVES KIM AND WONG (BLACK MAMBA: 010110-272011-17; LYCAN: 012513-018314-18) HAS BEEN TERMINATED BY THE PRESIDENT OF THE REPUBLIC DUE TO THE CLANDESTINE NATURE OF THE OPERATION.

FOR YOUR INFORMATION.

LTG. ████████████  
OFFICER-IN-CHARGE  
COVERT OPERATIONS

LOCATION: **CLASSIFIED**  
**SOL 000** — 05:38:06

VISIONNAIRE: **LUCAS W.** / ALIAS: **RED DRAGON**  
ORG: **CONFIDENTIAL — FOR MEMBERS’ EYES ONLY**  
EXTENSION: **1-20433**  
STATUS: **ACTIVE** [HANDLER]

Lucas Wong, by definition, was a lot of things.

“...and you still think that you can magically make him help us?”

“No.”

He was a child actor, a competing athlete, and a certified marksman before he could even get a driving license.

He won a National Artist Award at the age of twelve, an Athlete of the Year award by the time he was fourteen, and he was even given a commendation by the former President of the Republic for getting two Olympic gold medals in both the ten-meter air pistol and ten-meter air rifle categories.

According to the people who had witnessed his rise to fame, he was nothing short of a visionary—a young man who already had his entire life planned out in front of him. After all, he already had the fame, the financial stability, and the privilege to do whatever it was that he wanted to do in life.

 _He was free_.

And yet, even with the world at the palm of his hand, Lucas’ grandeur still faded into the background as soon as he turned sixteen.

“You’re really out of your fucking mind, you know that?”

Lucas chuckled, glancing over at his friend as he fired his pistol using only his right hand without bothering to look at the cardboard target that was hanging ten meters away from where they were standing. “You and I both, Winter.”

“Show off,” Winter muttered under her breath before turning to their new trainees. “Don’t ever do what he just did when you’re firing at someone in an open area. Always keep your eyes on the target and use your other hand for support when you’re holding a gun. Is that understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good,” Winter said, cocking her muzzled pistol—a Sig Sauer P226, Lucas noted, a noticeable contrast to his Glock 43—as she moved her feet to do a proper shooting stance. “And stop calling me that. I’m not better than any of you.”

Winter pulled the trigger and Lucas only stood in silence as her bullets went through the center of the stomach up to the center of the silhouette target’s head, creating a neat vertical line of bullet holes on the cardboard that was nearly identical to his own.

She had always been competitive, a trait that Lucas liked the most about her, and Winter never had any problem delivering the best results.

“Now, who’s the show-off?” Lucas asked with a grin as Winter lowered her pistol.

His friend only flipped him off and looked back at the two trainees. “Even if you can’t hit the target, just keep practicing with a proper posture. Don’t rush and don’t pressure yourself. Your accuracy will eventually follow through.”

Lucas’ eyes traveled to the rookies on their left, staring at them in thought as they listened attentively to Winter’s advice.

He couldn’t help but think about their reasons for entangling themselves in this mess. They still both looked somewhat sheltered, if Lucas was being honest, and he wondered whether he saw something in them just as he had seen something in him.

“I know that look,” Winter quipped once the trainees were out of earshot, picking up the clipboard with the trainees’ profiles from one of the tables below the line of knife-throwing boards. “Stop it. Karina’s good at handling sharp blades and Shotaro’s reflexes are way beyond average. They each have their own strong points.”

Lucas huffed out a soft chuckle. “I didn’t even say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, Lucas saw Shotaro hit his cardboard target at the dead center while Karina managed to shoot a second bullet in the same hole as her first one.

It was the fastest shooting progress he’d ever seen.

“You know,” he started, throwing a glance at Winter who only raised a brow at him in return. “If I had known you’d be this great with kids, I would’ve just recommended you to be the handler.”

“They’re both older than me,” his friend deadpanned, focusing her attention back on the clipboard in her hands.

“And yet you made them do that in just a few minutes.”

The suppressed whirring sound of the guns going off caught their attention, causing both him and Winter to look back at the trainees. Karina fired directly at the silhouette's head, keeping her bullets close and clustered in a small section of her cardboard target, and Shotaro kept his focus on the red circle placed on the silhouette’s stomach.

They looked more comfortable using the handguns now than an hour ago, Lucas noted, and he could only watch in awe as they managed to replicate the stunt that his friend had pulled earlier.

“Stop selling yourself short,” Winter quietly said beside him. “Memphis asked you to lead, so go lead. He has a lot of faith in you and I do, too.”

Lucas glanced back at his friend and smiled. “I’m starting to think that your side hustle before all of this was being a motivational speaker at those pyramid scheme conventions.”

“Fuck off.”

The large double doors of the shooting range opened before Lucas could open his mouth to bite back a reply, prompting him to shift his gaze to see who it was.

Yangyang lazily strolled inside, idly playing with a butterfly knife in his right hand as he walked towards them with a smug grin, and gave a single nod at the trainees as he passed by them.

“They’re getting a lot better,” their cobbler said, still flipping his butterfly knife even when his eyes were on their new members.

Lucas shrugged at Yangyang’s comment, subtly trying to pass it off as his achievement to get a rise out of Winter, but their colleague only rolled her eyes at them and tucked the clipboard under her arm as she prepared to take her leave.

“They are,” she agreed. “I just wish I could say the same for the two of you.”

Yangyang cackled, halting his hand’s movements before throwing his knife at the end grain target board behind them. “Don’t you have people to scam, princess?”

Winter only glared at the cobbler, still looking unfazed even when a knife just swished by a few inches away from her ear, and simply flicked Yangyang’s chin up with a finger, leaving both of them as she made her way back to the trainees.

“You’re up early,” Lucas commented, eyes trailing after Winter while she gestured at Karina to approach her.

Their cobbler stifled a yawn. “I actually haven’t slept yet.”

“Out on another stakeout?”

“You could say that.” Yangyang turned to him then, his whole face seemingly lighting up in mischief. “ _Plus_ , I was busy wrapping up the scrap you ordered.”

**...- .. ...- .-**

**SOL 000** — 13:37:52

The Underground had seen its fair share of action.

Serving as the Last Chieftain’s residence during the Conquest, the Children’s hideout during the first revolution, and the Legion’s base during the Second World War, its vast tunnels provided a safe place for the Republic’s forefathers, the revolutionaries, and the countless rebels who sacrificed their lives to liberate the country from its oppressors.

It was the Republic’s very own crowning glory.

An important instrument that defined and united the people’s power.

Roughly a year after the country had declared its independence from its last known imperialist, however, the fifth president of the Republic suddenly decided to seal it off—citing its instability as the reason for boarding up all its entryways to cover up the fact that they were afraid of being overthrown by their own people.

It was a hell of a clever move, Lucas used to think. The Underground had historically been used as a clandestine meeting place, after all, and what better way to minimize the chances of people uprising against the government than by putting a plug inside the only place where they could freely plot their rebellion?

Except, of course, they forgot to shut down the secret entryways outside of the Capital.

“Where?” Xiaojun asked for the third time, seemingly still in awe at the information that he had been relayed to.

Lucas couldn’t blame him, he supposed, seeing as the man struggled to stay awake for more than a half of their entire conversation. “In the brig. Yangyang managed to do it early this morning.”

“Wow,” Xiaojun responded before trailing off, blinking several times in what Lucas could only assume was a way to keep himself from dozing off.

Lucas smiled apologetically in return, slightly feeling bad that he was keeping his friend up, and decided to postpone their daily briefing for another time. “Go back to sleep, X. We’ll do this again later.”

Xiaojun murmured something incoherent under his breath, but didn’t argue with him. The hacker excused himself to the other members and took his leave while rubbing his eyes, letting the rest of them carry on with their discussion without him.

“Have you told Memphis about this, though?” Ningning inquired, still surveying her freshly-painted nails under the light of the room.

“I have.”

Ningning shot him a look. “And did he agree?”

“He didn’t.”

A bubble of laughter reverberated against the walls of the chamber, sounding a lot louder than it was intended. Lucas smoothed his suit and let his eyes run over his team, observing each of them in their own little bubble.

Ningning and Giselle sat on the large sectional sofa by the air conditioner with a box of nail polish on the side, Sungchan and Haechan played checkers on a propped-up table near the large double-doors, and Chenle occupied himself by tinkering with his latest weapon.

They looked almost normal—as if more than half of them weren’t trained and seasoned killers.

“You seem really sure about him,” Giselle quipped, lifting her head briefly to get her point across, and went back painting her own nails on Ningning’s lap. “I heard even Winter was surprised when you brought his name up in front of Memphis.”

“She was,” he said. “She asked me what my end goal was.”

“And what exactly is your end goal here, Wong?” Ningning asked in return. “He’s a birdwatcher and a member of The Godfather’s presidential security group. If he escapes and pinpoints our location, this whole operation will be all for nothing.”

Lucas tilted his head to the side, his mind lingering at the two words that came of Ningning’s mouth.

 _The Godfather_.

The moniker alone made him want to howl with laughter.

The sixteenth president of the Republic had curated a public persona that didn’t match his personality. His fanatics referred to him as The Godfather after Coppola’s trilogy, even bringing up his strongman nature and his iron-fist style of leadership as their reference for calling him as such, while his PR team used it to give the citizens a false sense of familial bond with him.

It was laughable at first… until The Godfather started his reign of terror approximately four years ago.

“I knew him from before,” Lucas answered. “He’s a lone ranger and he’s easily corruptible. We’ll stick to Memphis’ plan and simply dispose of him once we get the main blueprint of The Palace.”

“That’s cold,” Winter’s voice popped out from behind him. “Are you sure there are no personal feelings involved in this?”

“We’re all professionals here, princess.” he hastily retorted. “You keep saying that as if you don’t know me at all.”

Winter grinned and plopped herself in between Giselle and Ningning. “That’s right. I don’t.”

Lucas gave her the finger, earning a glare from the two women beside her, but was abruptly interrupted by the sound of double-doors opening.

“ _Red_ ,” Yangyang called from the doorway. “It’s game time.”

⌖

“You’re dead.”

He puffed a chuckle, feeling the sides of his lips quirk up at the amount of disbelief that seeped through the man’s voice. “I must be here to haunt you, then.”

Lucas only watched in amusement as the muscle under the man’s right eye twitched, almost as if his accusation hit an exposed nerve, and subtly braced himself once he noticed the cautious way that Mark widened his stance, angling the top half of his body as he readied himself to attack.

Lucas drew out a short, inaudible sigh.

 _Maybe some things are bound to never change_ , he thought to himself, unbuttoning his jacket and adjusting the knot of his tie before putting both of his hands inside his pants’ front pockets. It had been two years already and he would be lying if he didn’t say that a part of him expected for Mark to have a completely different approach when it came to hand-to-hand combat.

Lucas took a half-step backward and anchored his left heel behind him, missing the first punch that Mark had carelessly thrown at him by only a fraction. The man seemed to anticipate for him to move as such, however, and quickly maneuvered their positions in an attempt to strike him from behind.

 _Well_.

His movements certainly became a lot faster, Lucas noted subconsciously as he whirled around, and yet it still somewhat looked awkward and unpolished.

Like him, Mark’s specialty had always been with long-range firearms. His former colleague had the reputation for having both the eye of an eagle and the patience of an ox during stakeouts—not to mention that Mark could hit several moving targets located as far as two-thousand five hundred meters.

They were the skills that had helped the man crawl into the Avenger Unit of The Godfather’s secret police and they were very same skills that Lucas couldn’t seem to imitate even if he put his mind into it.

“ _You fucker_ ,” Mark hissed, effectively tearing Lucas out of his thoughts and slamming him back into the present. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

Lucas ducked just in time to see the man’s fist barreling towards him, prompting him to make an uncalculated sidestep to his right and take his left hand out of his pocket to balance himself.

Mark didn’t waste any time and threw another punch at him again, the sides of his hands finally making contact on Lucas’ clothed forearm. Lucas didn’t budge, simply allowing the man to pounce on him once more before finally veering his body away from Mark’s reach.

 _Bingo_.

Lucas took two steps forward, deciding to use both his hands to his leverage at the last minute, and quickly grabbed onto Mark’s wrists and raised both his arms to his chest, forcefully gravitating the man’s body closer to his own until they were mere inches away from each other.

He could clearly see the tired wrinkles under Mark’s eyes, the tight lines on the sides of his mouth, and the exhausted expression that he was trying his best to hide.

Mark visibly clenched his jaw and writhed against him, hooking his right leg up around his waist as he struggled to pull his arms out of his grasp, but Lucas simply pushed him to the nearest wall and tightened his grip on the man.

“Stand down, Mark,” Lucas warned. “You’re going to start bleeding again if you keep this up.”

“Fuck you,” his former colleague snarled, slowly ceasing his movements as Lucas pressed further against him. “Get off of me, you son of a bitch.”

“No,” he replied calmly. “Not until you stop moving.”

The man only glowered at him and kept his mouth shut, breathing out a resigned sigh as he leaned his head back on the concrete wall and let his body go lax under Lucas’ hold.

Lucas waited at least a couple of seconds, making sure to keep a close eye on Mark’s movements, before finally loosening his grip on Mark, allowing the man to completely slip away from him.

“ _Shit_ ,” he heard Mark hissed as soon as there was an ample amount of distance between them, and watched him support his right hand with the other. The man moved back to the metal chair that he was originally strapped into, not failing to shoot daggers at Lucas while he nursed his thumb.

Strangely enough, the sight of Mark glaring at him somehow enveloped Lucas in a wave of nostalgia and reeled his mind back to their time together in the Organization. They were practically inseparable— _like two golden peas in a pod_ , their upperclassmen used to describe them—and that seemed to catch the attention of the ones who were seated in the ranks.

He should’ve known that those old geezers would have the audacity to use Mark against him.

Lucas sighed once more and held out a hand without uttering a word, silently asking the other to give him his injured hand. Mark raised a brow at him but obliged, hesitantly showing him the limp thumb on his right hand.

“You should stop using my technique,” Lucas said softly, gently turning the man’s hand over to inspect it. “You’ll only end up damaging your hand in the long run if you keep on doing it.”

“I wouldn’t have done it if you didn’t have me kidnapped,” Mark retorted, voice strained as if he was biting back a groan. “Where in the world were you, anyway?”

Lucas shot him an amused look. “I was dead, remember?”

“Evidently, not dead enough.”

“That’s not really my fault now, is it?”

Mark tensed in front of him, even slightly pulling his hand away from Lucas’ touch, but Lucas only let out a chuckle and tapped a finger on the back of Mark’s hand.

“Don’t worry,” he assured him. “It was just good business. I didn’t take anything personally.”

His former colleague still looked skeptical, however, fully withdrawing his hand before leaning back against the chair and raising a questioning brow at him. “Why am I here, then?”

“I need you to do something for me.”

A beat of silence passed by between them, hovering above their heads for a moment as if it was waiting for the tension to break, until Mark decided to draw out a long, deep breath. “What stupid idea are you trying to pull off this time?”

Lucas stared straight into Mark’s eyes and grinned.

“I’m going to kill The Godfather.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2 A _cobbler_ is an operative who creates false passports, visas, diplomas, and other documents.


	3. para bellum

#  **MARK**

**SOL 001** — 10:27:32

**L.I.O.N. — MAIN HEADQUARTERS**  
4TH FLR. GEN. MACARTHUR BLDG.,  
**INNER CITY, THE CAPITAL**

_Lucas Wong._

The man’s name alone left an acrid taste at the back of Mark’s mouth, lingering on the surface of his tongue and burning its way down his throat as if he was being forced to swallow his own bile.

It had been two years since Operation Red Horse, two years since the Avenger Unit had been dismantled, and two years since Mark had left his two comrades and three civilians under the rubble of the former Senate building, callously watching the lot of them disappear into the heart of the fire without calling for backup.

They were all killed in action, the mission report stated—or, _at least_ , that was what they all thought at the time.

“You failed to submit two consecutive reports, Panther.”

Jongin looked at him through his upside-down, half-rimmed triangular cat-eye glasses, its dark red tint adding a gripping shadow on his otherwise stoic expression.

Their Operative-in-Charge had always had the flair for the dramatic, expressing himself more through clothes than through the muscles of his face, and Mark had always found it fascinating how the man could get his point across with just a slight pull of his lips or a raise of a brow.

Today, however, the disappointment that the man was feeling was visibly written all over his face.

“Well?” Jongin probed, clicking incessantly at the button of his retractable pen. “Do you care to explain yourself or should I just submit all of your paperwork like this?”

Mark only stood in attention and kept his expression neutral, careful not to give away any movement that might come off as suspicious. “I was indisposed on a scouting mission, sir. I just got back this morning from outside of the Capital.”

Jongin evidently paused before him, also stopping his movements in the process, and leaned forward on his desk. “Were you attacked?”

Scouting missions were never formally referred to as _scouting missions_ inside the confines of the Palace. They were technically considered rogue but authorized operations, ones that came directly from The Godfather himself, and getting chosen was considered by the majority of his colleagues to be one of the highest honors they could get.

_It wasn’t._

If any, in Mark’s personal opinion, it was only an excuse for The Godfather to stay in power.

The President of the Republic would usually call for the _lucky pick_ from his Rolodex of military, police, or LION operatives in his office, discuss their stalk-or-attack plan to either round up the rebels or keep tabs on those who plan to usurp him, and then share a glass or two of an imported bourbon as they both sit in front of The Godfather’s underground strip club.

It was a distasteful waste of the taxpayers’ money and, based on Mark’s personal experience, the riskiest task for an operative like him.

After all, scouting missions were made without their respective OIC’s knowledge and oftentimes kept only in the strictest confidence between The Godfather and the operative.

He supposed it was a good thing that the man saw him as a little brother—otherwise, Mark knew he would be knee-deep in dogshit if Jongin so much as breathed any of what he had just told him.

“Yes, sir.”

“How many hostiles did you eliminate?”

“At least twenty, sir,” he answered with a leveled voice as he stared straight into his superior’s eyes. “They brought more firepower than I did, but it was nothing I couldn’t handle. I had a few scratches, though.”

Jongin leaned back on his swivel chair, its leather cushion emitting an unattractive squeak that coursed across the otherwise still room, and Mark could almost see the ghost of a smile that seemed to play on the man’s lips as he flicked his gaze at the bandage that was wrapped around Mark’s right arm and hand.

“Were you compromised in any way?” Jongin queried as he perused through the neat stack of documents on top of his desk. “Identity, affiliations, any of the sort?”

Mark’s expression remained neutral, watching their OIC silently as the man scribbled away on the blank piece of report paper that he had taken out of his pile. “Negative, sir.”

“Very good.” The man sitting across from him filed the paper inside one of the binders that decorated the packed bookshelf behind him, meticulously arranging everything back into place, before taking his phone out. “I’m changing your reporting schedule from daily to weekly. Your phone has already been programmed by Navis, yes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Use that to log your reports instead of coming here,” Jongin said with a nod without looking at him, tapping furiously away at his phone. “We’re allowing you to go rogue for this operation.”

Mark stiffened, allowing his resolve to crack even just for a fraction of a second, and pushed his tongue on the roof of his mouth.

_Not another one…_

“Am I required to go off-grid, sir?”

“Not necessarily,” Jongin answered, still busy with his phone. “For your weekly reports, you’re going to have to come in and present them to The Godfather yourself. Other than that, the flow of the operation is entirely in your hands. The Godfather just needs good results.”

Mark wanted to scoff at that last bit. “Do I get to assemble a team, sir?”

“I’m afraid it has to be a one-man op,” Jongin responded plainly, putting his gadget face down on his desk as he pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose. “But don’t worry. We have someone on standby in case this whole thing goes south.”

“I see.”

His superior only looked passively back at him, probably noticing the slight disappointment that had managed to slip out of his voice, before taking out a metallic folder from under his desk. “Do you have any other questions?”

“None, sir.”

“ _Good_. At ease, soldier,” Jongin commanded and gestured for him to take the folder away from him. “Enclosed in there is the file that you need to review. You know the drill. Make sure you throw it in the furnace before you exit the building. Copy?”

“Copy, sir.”

“If there’s nothing else you’d like to add, then you’re dismissed. Keep me posted.”

Mark took a quick look at the metallic folder, testing the weight of it in his hand, and gave his superior a stiff nod in courtesy before making an about-face to exit Jongin’s office.

“Mark,” Jongin called just as Mark had wrapped a hand on the doorknob, prompting him to turn half of his body around to see the man.

“Sir?”

“Whatever you do,” his superior said without looking up at him, his voice coming out strangely soft as he scrolled through his phone. “Try not to die out there.”

◎◎◎

Mark released a sigh.

“ _Again_.”

The six men in front of him immediately halted their movements, whether from fear or blind obedience, and hastily went back to their original positions. He could see the sweat running down from the men’s forehead, splitting as it reached their brows, and he could almost smell the putrid odor of fear oozing out of their pores.

It was disgusting.

“Lousy,” Mark said quietly but audible enough for everyone to hear. “That’s what you all are. Do you really expect your batch to graduate from this program when you all can’t even follow a simple instruction?”

The new candidates looked even more tensed, their Adam’s apples bobbing in unison at Mark’s question. “Sir! No, sir!”

“Good,” he remarked as he leaned back against the clean blackboard in front of the room, gracefully flipping the knife in his hand. “Now, do it again.”

The GREEN Program had been part of LION’s line of new initiatives ever since the Avenger Unit had been disassembled. A way to compensate for the unexpected shortage of elite operatives, the higher-ups reasoned, prompting both The Director and The Godfather to assign non-commissioned operatives in recruiting, training, and educating the new members of The Godfather’s growing army throughout the course of six months.

It was the Republic’s version of The Kingsman Agency, Jongin once pointed out, only the entire process was nowhere near as classy as Mark Millar and Dave Gibbons’ fictional comic series. Unlike in the series, a reject’s future outside of the program would ultimately end in their deaths.

That reason alone, in Mark’s point of view, was why he considered it to be one of the most ridiculous plans that the organization had come up with.

“ _Na_ ,” Mark called out sharply. “You’re doing everything wrong.”

Jaemin stilled and quickly whipped his head in Mark’s direction, causing his training partner to slip and almost hit Jaemin’s right eye with the blunt end of his fake wooden tactical knife.

Mark had to stop himself from sighing.

“You two,” he said instead, pocketing his own knife before crossing his arms across his chest. “Fall in.”

The two candidates scrambled forward, standing in attention in front of him with their wooden tactical knives by their sides.

They both looked a year younger than him at the very least, Mark noted, subtly running his eyes up and down their forms now that he could scrutinize them more closely.

Jisung, Jaemin’s training partner, had an aura of confidence and potential about him. An advantage, _no doubt_ , especially since LION operatives needed to make risky decisions if the mission wasn’t heading in the right direction… only the man didn’t seem to know how to carry it properly.

His gaze then inevitably wandered to Jaemin, openly assessing the candidate without bothering to hide the movements of his eyes, and Mark felt his jaw tightened.

He could see his reflection staring right back at him.

 _Too obedient_ , Mark thought to himself. _The worst quality that an intel operative could ever have_.

Conin was going to have a field day with just these two.

“Correct your stance,” he said to both of them. “I know it sounds stupid, considering you won’t need it in an actual fight, but it’s better for you to practice with it now than get stabbed in the field because you couldn’t balance yourself. Understood?”

“Sir! Yes, sir!”

Mark tilted his head to the side. “Do it again in front of me. Jaemin, I want you on offense this time.”

The two candidates shuffled to their positions and faced each other, lowering their bodies as they prepared for Mark to give them the signal to start.

When both of them finally had the proper stance, Mark waved his hand up, causing the two men in front of him to come at each other without hesitation, clashing and pulling away from one another in what almost looked like a choreographed dance.

Jisung effortlessly blocked Jaemin’s attacks, gracefully moving from one side to the other as he dodged the other man’s free hand, but Jaemin only came at him more aggressively each time, seemingly taking note of his training partner’s movements while he continuously charged at him. Jisung sidestepped at the same time as Jaemin did, both going in the same direction, and Jaemin seized the opportunity to grab onto the other man’s arm and point the knife on Jisung’s neck.

_Much better._

“That’s good,” he told them as he pushed himself off of the blackboard, taking his phone out of his pocket to check on the time. “Now, go back to your stations.”

“I didn’t know you got demoted to being an NCO,” the familiar voice of a woman piped up from behind the slightly opened door.

“I wasn’t,” Mark said as a form of greeting. He didn’t even need to look up from his gadget to know it was their organization’s lead software engineer. “The higher-ups want me to sleep. I’m just here as a substitute while Conin’s in a meeting.”

Navis invited herself inside and teasingly took a quick peek at his phone. “You’re sleeping? For how long?”

“That’s classified,” he answered monotonously, shying his screen away from her eyes.

His colleague leaned back and whistled. “Damn. And here I was thinking LION’s most notorious operative finally got the teaching job that he had always wanted.”

_Bzzt. Bzzt._

> You done?

> Will be @ conf. room in 5.

> Should I send the kids there?

> Yes, please. Thank you.

Mark deleted their conversation thread and locked his phone, placing it back inside his pocket in one swift motion before clapping his hands together to get the attention of the men training in front of him.

“Everyone, at ease,” he instructed the candidates. “Take five and proceed to the conference room right after. Operative Conin will be there waiting for you.”

“Sir! Thank you, sir!”

“When you decide to retire from being The Godfather’s pet,” his colleague started beside him, a small, playful smile dancing on her lips. “You should consider being an instructor.”

Mark only huffed out a chuckle in response. “I’ll see you around, Karina.”

#  **LUCAS**

**SOL 000** — 16:10:32

**SCION BASE**  
LEVEL 3, A. LUNA TUNNEL  
**THE UNDERGROUND, ZONE 33**

“Are you out of your _fucking_ mind?”

He said nothing in return at his former colleague’s outburst but kept the obnoxious grin on his face as he decided to step away from the man seated on the metal chair in front of him.

Mark still looked the same as he did when Lucas had last seen him. His body was far more toned and his expression was far more guarded, sure, but it was still the same shell of the Mark Lee he had once known.

If he ever knew him at all.

“Is that what the higher-ups ask you all the time at the HQ?” Lucas asked, still grinning at the man as he crossed his arms and leaned his body against the heavy steel door behind him.

Having experienced just how unprogressive and spineless those old men sitting in position at the Capital could be, Lucas could already deduce that Mark’s independent missions were met with raised brows and questioning looks.

They all did the same thing to him, after all, and if history could be used as a reference, it would only be a matter of time before they could form an assembly and paint the narrative that Mark was an enemy of the Republic.

Lucas ran his tongue through his teeth and clicked it on the roof of his mouth. “How are they, by the way? I heard they threw a star-studded gala at the Palace right after I died.”

“You can’t kill The Godfather,” Mark answered instead, voice low and on the cusp of sounding very much like a threat.

It only made Lucas want to rip out The Godfather’s throat more.

“I _can_ ,” he countered confidently. “And I will.”

Mark finally looked up at him, eyes glaring and lips pulled back into a tight line. “No, you won’t. Not with, _what_ , a team of non-professional civilians with unlicensed firearms? You’re setting them up to fail and you’re only going to get blood on your hands if you keep this up.”

“Come on now, Mark.” Lucas tilted his head to the side, uncrossing his arms to put a hand on his chest, pouting his lips slightly in mock offense. “You’re hurting my ego here. Have you already forgotten who you’re talking to?”

”Of course not,” his former colleague bit back. “I’m talking to a man who’d willingly send innocent people to their deaths.”

Lucas snorted. “No one in this country is innocent. We’re all accessories to your boss’s crimes.”

Mark didn’t say anything in return, choosing instead to lean back against the chair that he was sitting on as he released a long, audible breath.

It had been six years since The Godfather had been elected, five years since he had started his drug war, and four years since he had declared martial law, suppressing the majority of his vocal critics with just one snap of his fingers and pooling the total state-sponsored deaths to at least a fourth of the population.

…most of which were unaccounted for.

“Stop playing god, Lucas,” Mark finally let out after a couple of dead seconds, keeping his voice low but still managing to capture Lucas’ attention. “The Godfather’s security is impenetrable. You won’t make it past the gates of the Palace.”

“That’s where you come in,” he said with a smile. There was no point in withholding what his role was in his plan anymore, Lucas decided. At the end of the day, the man would have to help them whether he wanted to or not. “You’re going to help us get inside.”

“And for what?” Mark countered almost immediately. “To lead more people to their deaths?”

Lucas wanted to laugh out loud.

After him, Mark probably had the most marks on The Godfather’s Red Book. The man had been sent out in several scouting missions before Lucas had been assassinated, at least half of the times he had been sent out, and Lucas could only imagine how many more scouting missions he had been sent to since his supposed death.

He bit the insides of his cheeks.

For a lapdog, Mark sure held his morals high.

“Twenty-three,” he said instead.

The man shot him a confused look. “What?”

“You killed twenty-three rebels right before Yangyang managed to get ahold of you,” Lucas answered, moving his body away from the heavy steel door as he took a single step forward. “You’re no better than a hired killer, Mark. The only difference between the two of us is that I’m doing this for what I believe in. Not because a dictator ordered me to.”

Mark, surprisingly, didn’t show any sign of taking offense at what he had just told him. The man simply squinted his eyes at him. “You’re far more stupid than I thought if you think that killing The Godfather is going to magically change this shithole of a country.”

He pushed back the smile that almost formed on his lips.

“I know it won't,” he agreed. “But it’s a risk that’s worth taking.”

The man kept his eyes trained on him but kept his mouth shut, seemingly processing his words while he studied him closely. He had a look on his face, Lucas noted—one that he knew all too well.

Mark clenched his jaw. “What’s in it for me, then?”

_Score._

Lucas kept his face neutral, simply raising a brow at the man in question as if he didn’t understand what he was asking.

“If I’m going to help you,” his former colleague clarified. “What’s in it for me?”

“I’ll let you finish what you started.”

There was a pause, a beat of silence hanging in the air between them, and he could almost hear the gears in the man’s mind clash against each other as they shifted rapidly.

Mark’s eyes glinted. “Swear it.”

Lucas grinned, pulling out the butterfly knife that was concealed and strapped to his calf. He showed the weapon to Mark as a sign of good faith before stretching his right arm out, palm facing the man, and made one clean cut in the middle of his hand, letting his blood drip on the floor.

Mark roused from his seat and took the butterfly knife from him, repeating what he did but on his own palm before shaking Lucas’ hand.

“I’ll help you and your team,” the man said solemnly, eyes still glinting in what he could only assume as anticipation. “And then I’m going to kill you.”

⌖

“You really let him go?” Giselle asked as soon as he entered the room, catching the attention of the rest of the team.

Lucas walked further inside with a grin and plopped his entire weight on the couch, putting his feet up on the cushions as he placed his head onto the armrest before closing his eyes shut. “Yup.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

The entire room seemingly stilled, even the hushed murmurs of the rest of his teammates stopped at his answer, prompting Lucas to crack an eye open and subtly motion for Winter to get on with the meeting.

His friend, however, only looked at him with a raised brow. “What’s our next move?”

Lucas dragged a hand down his face and sat up, leaning forward with his elbows propped on his legs.

“Memphis’ plan gave us about two months to prepare for the main event,” he told the rest of his teammates with a sigh. “But we’re going to have to cut that into just a month since we can't have Mark working for us for too long.”

It also happened to be the most convenient schedule for them, Lucas thought as a side note, already sorting out their operation’s timetable in his head as he remembered the annual presidential address was going to fall in the third week of the following month.

Although he didn’t say anything about an actual date, Memphis had always included in his plan that The Godfather’s death should happen on a major national event—one that could be seen by a lot of people. It was a vile idea, Lucas used to tell him, but it would send a clear message to anyone who was watching.

_The Godfather is dead._

“Can Panther give us the blueprint in twenty days?” Winter asked from across him, somehow managing to whip a notepad out without Lucas noticing.

“Knowing his connections,” he began with a shrug as he tried to remember the rotation of the guards in the Palace’s Archives off the top of his head. “I bet he can have that in fifteen if we just push the right buttons.”

Winter nodded, writing it down on her notepad. “That’s good.”

“I really don’t understand why you’re putting so much trust in that croc,” Ningning said out loud as she checked her reflection on the compact mirror that Giselle was holding. “I say just give it a week or two and you’ll see that he had already sung his heart out to The Godfather.”

“He’s not going to do that,” Winter responded with just enough conviction that Lucas wanted to believe her, too. “That dumbass right there made him do a blood pact.”

Lucas scoffed and laid back down on the couch, crossing an arm over his eyes as he placed his feet back on the cushion.

“Are you sure about that?” Ningning pressed on, adding a sharp edge in her tone. “Because as far as I can remember, he was the one sent out The Godfather to assassinate you two. A blood pact means nothing to those kinds of people.”

“Careful there, kid,” he heard Xiaojun’s voice piped up. “You’re talking to Lucas.”

Lucas smirked but didn’t bother taking off the arm on his face. “Fuck off, X.”

The tension in the atmosphere lifted as his teammates laughed among themselves, the air of their laughter echoing across the room like a soft tune, and Lucas somehow felt a surge of confidence rush through him, feeling even more determined to push through with the plan.

“Don’t worry, butterfly,” Winter chimed in. “Panther was an Avenger. We used to honor the blood pact more than we honor ourselves.”

His friend’s last sentence made him laugh and move his head to the side to look at them. “Except for me.”

Winter rolled her eyes and closed her notepad before crossing her arms across her chest. “Who are we sending above ground, then?”

“Anyone who isn’t dead,” Lucas answered casually. “Yangyang, most probably.”

“We need two ops for that,” Xiaojun told him. “Sungchan, are you up for a field trip?”

Sungchan only looked at them and nodded, immediately going back to his game with Donghyuck without another word. Xiaojun glanced at Lucas with his brows raised and clasped his hands together, gesturing at Winter to continue with the meeting.

“That’s settled, then,” Winter said with a sigh. “Yangyang and Sungchan will measure the Palace grounds, Chenle will do the aerial inspection, and the newbies are going inside the Inner City as our eyes.”

He saw Ningning and Giselle shoot their heads up out of the corner of his eyes, but before he could address them, Winter spoke once again, this time directing her words at the rest of the team. “The rest of us are going on a hunt.”

Yangyang whistled. “But what are you going to do about Mark, Red?”

“Nothing,” Lucas answered with a grin. “I just have to make sure to kill him before he kills me.”


End file.
